St Ignatius High School - Ignatius Yearbook (Chicago, IL)

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Joe Zavadil presents the 'First in a series of four articles that will re- tell in words the stories that the stained windows in the nave of Holy Family Church 'tell so brilliantly in colored glass. The weakened Iesuit shifts his gaze to the young Chinese boy who kneels by his side. Those thin, cracked lips move slowly, and Xavier attempts to express the bitter dis- appointment that overwhelms his soul. My son, I die a failure. God in His good- ness presented me with countless opportuni- ties for saving pagan souls, but what little success my humble attempts have achieved! To the people of Iapan I brought, for the most part, unrest rather than spiritual peace. But, however unworthy I may be, what an honor it would be for me to carry the Word. of Christ into your native Cathay! Though even my beloved Father Ignatius seems to have forgotten me, may God remember my poor efforts. My trial on earth is ended, may His Will be done. The Saint stirs slightly. He thinks not of the work he has done in the past. The thought of wonderful days at the College of St. Barbara, and of the Society's early years come not into his tired mind. The great extent of his missionary activity in the vast districts of India and all the islands up to Iapan is all forgotten. To him the fruitful weeks in the Philippines and the East Indies are, as he is, humbly insignificant. Instead, the apostle's thoughts are focused solely on the future-on the Beatific Vision. The spiritual end to which he aspired during every minute of the forty-six years of his life, is in sight. Suddenly the haggard face seems to regain its youthful composure. The coura- geous heart is stilled. Francis Xavier has departed again for a new land. BLESSED PETER FABER Angels of God who guard this place, guide my every action that my work here may add to the greater honor and glory of God. The Iesuit preacher, Peter Faber, was praying. He was about to enter the German city of Worms, and he never ventured into a new field of labor for souls without first seeking help from the angels. Moreover, this companion of Ignatius Loyola knew well that he would need heavenly assistance more than ever before if he was to perform successfully the difficult task which con- fronted him. Worms had suffered greatly from the destructive tenets of the Protestant heresy. His was the job of repairing that damage. Hopeless as the situation may have appeared, Faber was not the one to be dis- couraged easily. Frequent prayers to his beloved guardian angel brought him more confidence as he set to work. Upon his arrival, the Missionary could find but two priests in the entire city who were not openly leading sinful lives. This grievous state of affairs tended to increase the Iesuit's zecrl rather than to dishearten him. To make the people mend their ways, he realized it would be necessary to reform first the clergy. Surely guided by the angels he so loved, Faber, with the help of a few other priests, drove the forces of heresy from the city and led the citizens back onto the path to Heaven. The young priest's intimate union with God and His heavenly creatures had again brought success to his efforts. Even from his youth, Faber had possessed an intense love for his Creator. When tend- ing his father's flocks in the Alps of Savoy, the boy had made an early vow of chastity. After his entrance into the University of Paris, his great piety had so impressed his fellow-student, Ignatius, that the young Savoyard was chosen by Loyola as his first companion. Throughout Europe he traveled, preaching God's Word and pointing the way to Christ. His early death was recog- nized as a heavy loss to the Society. No man could have accomplished so much for God as did Faber, without extraordinary Divine assistance. And surely no man better deserved that help than this Iesuit whom we might well call the Apostle of the Angels .

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bturiggergiphums ST. FRANCIS XAVIER Death is drawing near. The saintly head moves restlessly on its wooden pillow. The thin black-robed body that lies upon the damp, cold earth is losing its last few ounces of life. Disease has at last succeeded in l overpowering God's greatest missionary, Francis Xavier. Those sunken eyes behold in the misty distance the goal tor which he has long striven, but in vain. Never will he set toot on the shore of China. Never will he be granted the chance to convert to Christ the most numerous people of the East.

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aftlice .94 a 8457171 The Iap was cold. His teeth chattered and his numbed fingers shook as he tried to draw his water-soaked jacket more closely about him. He had been sitting in the middle of the rice field for two days now, and it was night. Hunger, cold, misery, and fatigue had begun to make their appearance. He was a soldier, but you could hardly recognize his uniform beneath the mud which covered him from head to foot. He was unshaven, unspeakably filthy, and al- most exhausted from squatting among the half-grown stalks of rice. Absently, he picked a lump of mud from the sleeve of his jacket, and considered its nutritional value. He cursed and dropped it into the water which rose almost to his waist. He proceeded to curse methodically. He cursed the young rice stalks for being too bitter to be edible, he cursed the stink- ing water, and the clouds of mosquitoes which almost maddened him,-but most es- pecially he cursed the Americans. Yesterday he had been a man of power, a loyal slave of the Emperor, a member of his great army. His slightest wish had been carried out immediately. But the coming of the Americans had changed everything. Today he is beaten, he must flee-alone. The Americans were searching for all the brave soldiers of Nip- pon, like him, who preferred hiding to sur- render. He was afraid of the Americans-afraid of what they would do to him. He had heard stories of the horrible tortures undergone by loyal Iapanese at the hands of the bestial Americans, and he had no wish to suffer. But even he knew that no one had ever received such inhuman treatment as that meted out by Colonel Osato, until recently commander of a prison camp for Americans. The Colonel was not pleasant to look at. He was short and bowlegged, and was so obese that he could only waddle. His head was round, and covered with close-cropped, greasy black hair, his face puffy and of an unhealthy color, his thick lips curled, betray- ing his inner coarseness and lechery. His nearsighted eyes were mere slits in the sag- ging, fleshy face, and gleamed with the malevolence of a devil. His flair for invent- ing unspeakable methods of torture had earned him the title of The Beast. The Beast was one of those who had fled when the Americans arrived, and only one person knew his whereabouts. A cold, tired man crouching in a rice field was the only living soul who could tell where The Beast lay hidden-and he would never give the Americans the satisfaction of knowing. But after all, he argued to himself, 'The Beast' was hated' by his own men. And that was true. They hated him with a fierce, burning hatred. The Beast had seen their hatred for him in their eyes each time he had ordered one of them to be beaten to death-as he did when angered. He had seen their hate vented on the only ones who could be their victims: the Ameri- can prisoners. They vented their hatred in countless diabolical ways each day, and contrived in every way to manufacture for the American dogs a visible hell on earth. The Beast had never remonstrated with the men for their cruelty to the prisoners. He only saw to it that his own treatment of them was even more devilish than theirs. Small wonder, then, that the American occupation forces were combing the entire area to find him. But he knew every inch of the country. They would never find him, -that is, not unless some one of his country- men knew where he was, and would report that fact. One man knew Where The Beast could